


Assorted Bandom Ficlets

by RedOrchid, salire



Category: Bandom
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Multi, Multiple Pairings, Multiple Ratings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-27
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-11 00:24:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/472380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedOrchid/pseuds/RedOrchid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/salire/pseuds/salire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What the title says. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fever (Ryan/Brendon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brendon is sick. Ryan makes him feel better.

”How are you feeling?”

Brendon tries to answer, he really does. His swollen throat won’t let him, though, and all that comes out is a hoarse sort of cough. He feels miserable, too hot and too cold, hair plastered to his forehead and a dull sort of ache in his head. Ryan helps him sit up half-way in his bunk, handing him a cup of steaming something (it looks like soup, but Brendon’s nose is too clogged up for him to be able to tell for sure) before crawling over Brendon’s legs, squeezing himself into the narrow space next to the wall.

“Hey, it’ll get better soon,” he says, leaning across the bunk to pick up the wet towel lying there (not really cold anymore), pressing it to Brendon’s forehead. Brendon takes a few sips of the soup (it might be mushroom, he can sort of feel little spongy pieces in his mouth as he tries to swallow) letting the hot liquid run down his throat, soothing the swelling ache there. He takes another couple of mouthfuls, a little too fast, burning his tongue.

“Water,” he manages, and if someone were to hear him now, they wouldn’t recognise his voice. There’s no way he could sing like this, he thinks mournfully. No singing, no talking, not anything really. The words and notes are still there, trapped inside his head, longing to come out, and he can’t shape them. The room is so quiet without music, without humming and making little melodies under his breath. He hates it.

Ryan crawls out of bed and disappears for a minute. When he returns, he not only has a glass of water with him, but a cold red bull and a pint of Baked Alaska ice-cream. Brendon takes the water gratefully, trying to express with his eyes how much he loves Ryan right at this moment, since the only thing coming out of his throat is a sort of broken whimper. It seems to work, though, because Ryan smiles and climbs back into the bunk, pulling Brendon’s head down to rest against his shoulder before he opens the box of ice-cream and holds out a spoon. Brendon takes it and stabs a little at the creamy goodness inside the carton. It’s too frozen still, and he only gets tiny slivers. It’s a stupid thing to be upset about, of course, but it still happens. The fever somehow enlarges everything, making every setback and frustration a hundred times more difficult to deal with.

“Here, let me.” Ryan takes the spoon and digs down, catching a decent amount of ice-cream and bringing the spoon to rest on Brendon’s lower lip. The metal is cold, and his mouth feels too hot when he parts his lips and licks at the smooth surface. The flavour of vanilla spreads across his tongue, and he closes his eyes in pleasure as he feels it melt and slide down, soothing the swelling as it goes. Ryan gives him another bite, and then another, before scooping up a spoonful with at least four or five of the little white chocolate polar bears in it and bringing it to his own lips with a pleased, humming sound. Brendon raises his hand to stop him, because Ryan shouldn’t do that or he’ll get sick too, but Ryan just smiles, eats the ice-cream and puts the spoon back in for another round.

“Better?”

Brendon nods around the new spoonful he’s just been given, causing some of the ice-cream to slide off and smear at the corner of his mouth and a little on his chin. He lifts his hand automatically to wipe it away, but stops half-way, because if Ryan’s okay with eating ice-cream with him off the same spoon, then maybe—

He gives Ryan his most helpless, puppy-eyed look and tilts his head a little to the side. Something shifts in Ryan’s eyes, something warm and stirring, and he leans in without hesitation, brushing his lips and tongue teasingly over Brendon’s skin, licking up the melting ice-cream. Brendon turns a little, and Ryan takes the hint, putting the spoon down and moving his hand to cup Brendon’s face as he kisses him, long and deep, cool lips and tongues moving together. Brendon twists a bit more, wanting to wrap himself up completely in Ryan’s body, and ends up overturning the container on his stomach, sending the spoon rolling over his t-shirt before it clatters to the floor.

“Did you want any more?” Ryan murmurs against his lips, and Brendon shakes his head, because no matter how good the ice-cream felt, this is better. He’d rather have this. Ryan pulls back a little, enough to locate the fallen carton and put it the right way up next to the bunk. “You have ice-cream all over your shirt.”

 _Then take it off,_ Brendon thinks, raising his arms above his head to communicate just that as he leans in for another kiss. Ryan snickers something along the lines of him being glad that Brendon is feeling better and pulls off the damp cotton with little difficulty. The sudden brush of air against his bare skin makes Brendon shiver, almost shake a little bit, and he’s happy when Ryan pulls up the blanket, creating a warm cocoon around the two of them. Ryan’s kisses grow hungrier, and Brendon can feel him begin to harden against his leg, which kind of brings about an immediate answering reaction from his own body. He moves his hips a little, and Ryan groans, low and needy, breaking the kiss to fumble out of his own shirt. His hands move to the drawstring of Brendon’s sweatpants next, pulling open the knot and sliding them down his hips with jerky, impatient movements. Brendon feels his head start to throb, the quickening flow of blood through his body heightening the feeling of being far too hot while also bringing the headache into sharper focus. His heart is beating much too fast in his chest, and Brendon can feel every pulsation in his temples, pain going off in tiny explosions behind his closed eyelids.

He groans, which turns into a cough, and Ryan’s hands still, coming up to rub soothing circles at the top of his chest. “You okay?”

Brendon would like to say that, yes, he’s fine, please keep going, but his head is kind of vetoing that idea, and to be completely honest, the rest of him doesn’t feel very sexy either. His sinuses are completely clogged and every part of him is clammy after spending two days in his bunk. Basically, he feels like crap.

Since his throat still won’t cooperate, he answers the question by burying his face against Ryan’s shoulder, making a small, miserable sound against the warm skin. Ryan wraps his arms around him and rubs the small of his back, and Brendon can hear from his breathing that he’s still worked up, but is trying to calm himself down again. Ryan’s erection is still pressed hard and hot against his leg, and Brendon grinds against it a little, out of habit more than anything else. The answering breath from Ryan is hitched on the intake and shudders as he lets the air back out. The hands on Brendon’s back clench, the right one digging into his hip. Brendon smiles and shifts his leg, adding a little more pressure.

“Bren…” Ryan’s voice is a little strained, as though he’s speaking with a clenched jaw. It’s also a little confused, and a little hopeful. “Do you—?” Brendon shakes his head dolefully, nibbling a little at the soft skin right above Ryan’s collarbone. Ryan gives another shaking breath. “Then show me what you want. Please.”

With his left hand, Brendon grabs hold of Ryan’s right where it clutches at his hipbone. Twisting a little, he manages to get his right one free as well, using it to pop the top button of Ryan’s jeans open and pull the zipper down. Ryan’s breathing is coming hard and fast against his neck as Brendon reaches inside, fumbling with the elastic on Ryan’s boxers until it’s been pushed down enough for Ryan’s cock to come free, straining against Brendon’s hand as he wraps his fingers around the heated flesh.

“God, Bren…” Ryan groans as Brendon guides the other boy’s hand to his, lacing their fingers together over Ryan’s dick. He looks up from Ryan’s shoulder and wishes that he could speak, that he could tell Ryan how much he loves watching him like this, all flushed and hard and desperate under his hands. Since he can’t, he kisses him instead, letting his tongue pass on the message with small, dirty jabs inside Ryan’s mouth. Ryan moans in response, tightening his grip on Brendon’s hand and moving them both faster, hips thrusting into the joint hold. Brendon tries to keep up with the rhythm, but his arms are slack and tired, too deprived of strength from the fever to be of much use. He tries to hold his grip and let Ryan control the movement but has to give up even on that after a while when his fingers get too tired. Instead, he ends up mindlessly patting the taut skin of Ryan’s lower stomach and hips, playing a little with the coarse hair there as Ryan bites his lip and moves his hand faster. He doesn’t seem to mind that Brendon isn’t taking a more active part in the proceedings—at least not if the laboured breathing and broken whimpers in the back of his throat are any indication—and Brendon smiles against the half-parted lips before sliding his mouth down the line of Ryan’s jaw, finding the sensitive spot just below his ear.

When Ryan’s hips begin to jerk, Brendon leans in for a deep kiss and lets his left hand slide into the back of Ryan’s jeans, stroking his ass and pushing their bodies tightly together. He swallows down the moans Ryan makes as he comes, hot and hard over Brendon’s stomach with a last twist of his hand. When it’s over, Ryan breaks the kiss and buries his face in the pillows, trying to get his breathing back under control while Brendon grabs for the wet towel he had pressed to his forehead earlier, using it to get them both cleaned up again. His own cock is half-hard against his hip and gives an interested little twitch as he brushes over it, but everything else in him aches from the fever and he’s really very happy to just lean back and close his eyes, pressing his forehead against Ryan’s. They drift off to sleep like that, all tangled up in the narrow bunk, rocking softly with the movement of the bus as they cross yet another state line.

THE END


	2. Give Me A Sign (Ryan/Brendon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sign language. _Ryan Ross_ doing sign language. With _those_ hands. _In front of_ Brendon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gratuitous hand porn.

It seemed like a good idea when Spencer came up with it. It really did. One of the techs who stayed with them on tour for over a month knew how to sign, and wouldn’t that just be a really-cool-skill-to-have-just-think-about-it-guys-we’d-never-have-to-scream-on-the-top-of-our-lungs-to-hear-each-other-in-clubs-ever-again?

And, yeah. It is useful. Brendon can totally see that. And when it’s just him and Spence, or him and Jon, or him and Jon and Spence and anyone else in the whole fucking world who isn’t friggin’ Ryan Ross, it’s totally cool. Really.

Problem is, of course, that they’re a band, and they tour together, and that means that Ryan is pretty much always in the exact same place as he and Spencer and Jon.

Signing. Moving his hands in graceful patterns in front of him, forcing Brendon to watch how the long fingers bend and stretch and curve until he’s ready to just explode on the spot, because _Jesus._

It was bad enough when the secret objects of Brendon’s growing obsession were just waving at fans, or curled around a sharpie at meet-and-greets; when they were absentmindedly drumming a quick rhythm against a tabletop or moving over the strings of Ryan’s guitar—because at least then, Brendon could turn his head, look at something else, pretend he didn’t see those fingers slide against his skin every time he closed his eyes.

It was bad then, too, but as long as he could look away, it was at least manageable. Which it isn’t anymore, because looking away when someone is signing to you? Kind of like sticking your fingers in your ears and go la-la-la! when someone is talking. And Brendon doesn’t want to be rude.

On the other hand, he doesn’t especially want to come in his pants just from watching Ryan’s hands sign _Seriously, Bden, don’t go there. The guy wears a picture of Celine Dion on his shirt,_ either. Especially as said guy is really pretty fucking cute (horrible t-shirt notwithstanding) and Brendon can’t even remember the last time he actually got some.

So Brendon flips Ryan off (a sign he knew well before the rest of the silent language started to make sense to him), and his friend replies with an _Ooh, touchy!_ And it is probably a testament to Brendon having had one too many beers, because _I could show you touchy, just say the word,_ is out of his hands (so to speak) before he even notices that his fingers are moving. Ryan raises an eyebrow from where he’s standing with Spencer across the room, and Brendon blushes, grabbing his beer from the bar with both hands so that the talkative body parts won’t be able to cause any more damage. Ryan looks at him for a long time, fingers playing with the leather bracelets on his wrists (seriously, don’t look, just don’t _look_ …) before he lowers both hands to rest just in front of his belt and signs a slow and deliberate _Wanna get out of here?_

Brendon stares at the hands, then at Ryan’s face, uncomprehending, because there’s no way, _no way_ Ryan meant what Brendon just thinks he did. Letting go of his bottle, he sends a shaky _Don’t fuck with me,_ across the room. Ryan’s answering _But what if I want to?_ is enough to take his breath away. It doesn’t exactly help that ‘want’ happens to be one of his absolute favourite signs from Ryan’s hands—all long fingers and graceful wrist movement. He swallows. Hesitates. And then decides to take the chance.

_Then come over here and kiss me._

It’s a challenge, and if everything goes horribly wrong, it could still be laughed off as such, as a joke between two friends. No big deal. He takes another drink of his beer and tries to smile, watching Ryan’s hands begin to formulate an answer (something sarcastic, no doubt) and then sort of freeze in mid-air. The lost movement seems to bleed into Ryan’s body instead, to his back as he straightens and to his legs as he stands away from the wall and starts walking forward. Towards the bar. Towards where Brendon is standing, leaning against the bar.

Brendon tries to say something, or think something even, but his mind remains curiously blank, able to focus only on Ryan as the taller boy crosses the floor—which really isn’t very helpful. Ryan slides in next to him at the bar, and Brendon’s right hand subconsciously rises, index finger and thumb extending, moving in to press against his left shoulder in silent question. Ryan’s fingers close around his gently, and then the other hand is coaxing the beer bottle out of his grip. Holding on to both of Brendon’s hands, Ryan guides them to his chest, covering them with his own in a crossed-over sign, almost like a pair of wings against the moss green of Ryan’s shirt.

He holds their hands there, pressing steadily, and looks from their overlapping palms to Brendon’s face, meeting his eyes. Brendon blinks, breathes, blinks again, and Ryan smiles, soft and slightly trembling. His hands—those incredible, beautiful hands—let go of their grip and move to Brendon’s chest, sliding upwards until long fingers are on Brendon’s neck, against his jaw, weaving themselves securely into his hair.

Ryan leans in, strong hands adding the slightest bit of pressure at the back of Brendon’s neck, and Brendon follows, _wants_ , parts his lips… And the world begins to spin.

THE END

A/N: The last two signs used in this fic can be seen [here](http://www.britishsignlanguage.com/words/index.php?id=49) and [here](http://www.britishsignlanguage.com/words/index.php?id=265)


	3. Joy to the World (Ryan/Brendon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Christmas gift fic for [](http://cynicsandsaints.livejournal.com/profile)[**cynicsandsaints**](http://cynicsandsaints.livejournal.com/), who [whished for](http://redorchids.livejournal.com/29485.html) _ryan and brendon on christmas eve, brendon decorating the house in lights last minute and nearly breaking his hand, fireplace, christmas tree, night time, snow, and brendon singing christmas songs in ryans ear._

”Hey, Ryan, where did we put the extension cord again?”

Brendon is covered in Christmas lights, yard after yard of cable with colourful bulbs attached hanging in neat loops around his neck and arms. Ryan looks up from the pot he’s stirring in slow, even circles, a slight frown on his face.

“On the shelf next to the spare tyres,” he says. “But I thought we weren’t doing lights this year? Since we’re going off to Chicago tomorrow and everything.”

Brendon just smiles and rolls his eyes, taking a few steps closer so that he can peer into the pot on the stove over Ryan’s shoulder. The caramel fudge is almost ready, thick and creamy around the wooden spoon. Ryan scrapes off most of the batter against the edge of the pot, leaving just enough for Brendon to taste as he brings the spoon up to his face. The smell of caramel is rich and heavy around them, filling Ryan’s nostrils with its beckoning sweetness. Brendon licks at the spoon carefully, testing the temperature, before he smiles, closes his lips around the edge of the wood and suckles softly at the melted treat.

“Any good?”

His question is answered with a kiss, Brendon closing the distance between them and letting his lips and tongue slide against Ryan’s, trading the flavour of caramel for saffron and chilli left from dinner earlier. Ryan removes the pot from the burner, putting it safely next to the sink. The spoon ends up somewhere nearby, the clatter of wood against polished wood barely noticed as Brendon hums contently and deepens the kiss, pressing as close as he can to Ryan’s back without crushing the lights wrapped all around his body.

“I’ll just be a minute,” he says, breaking off. “I’m not putting up the whole thing, just around the house and in some of the smaller bushes.”

Ryan nods. “Don’t forget the ‘X’,” he murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to Brendon’s ear before turning this attention back to the thickening fudge. It’s a tradition they have: fixing the lights on the roof so that they go diagonally across, intersecting around the chimney, marking the spot for Santa when he comes flying through the night.

“Ryan Ross,” Brendon admonishes, mock-hurt and wide-eyed. “I could never. What would even make you say such a horrible thing?” He moves out of the kitchen, putting an extra sway to his steps for Ryan’s benefit, lights tinkling happily around him. Ryan laughs.

***

He has almost finished cutting the fudge into squares and wrapping them up in brightly coloured pieces of paper when he hears it—a terrible crash somewhere to the left of the kitchen and Brendon’s muted scream in the middle of it all. He’s out of the house in seconds, just in time to see his boyfriend pull himself off the ground, swearing loudly and clutching his left arm.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

It comes out sharper than he intended, too many emotions having passed through him in too short a time to keep his voice calm and even. Brendon winces.

“Slipped and fell as I was climbing down,” he replies. “Think I did something with my wrist, caught it on the pipes or something.” He moves closer, holding up his left arm for inspection. There’s a long scrape along the outer side, spanning from the edge of the hand to half-way down the forearm. Even in the dark, Ryan can see blood forming where something sharp has broken through the pale skin.

“Come on.” He puts an arm around Brendon’s waist, leading him back to the house. The grass is cold and wet under his feet, the dampness of the earth seeping through his socks. Funny. He didn’t realise he hadn’t stopped to put on shoes. When they get back inside, Brendon goes to the bathroom to change his shirt and get the worst of the dirt and grass off. Ryan goes back into the garden, puts away the fallen ladder, connects the cables and takes a moment to admire the way the lights criss-cross around the yard, lighting up the rose bushes and Brendon’s baby apple tree before crawling up the walls of their house, outlining it in the December darkness.

***

“Here, let me help you with that.”

He sits down next to Brendon on the couch, taking the ball of cotton wool from his fingers and reaches across the table for the antiseptics at the bottom of the first-aid kit. Brendon hisses at the first contact of alcohol on broken skin, but keeps his hand as still as he can, letting Ryan clean out the wound and wrapping it up in clean gauze.

“Thanks.” It’s barely a whisper, and the smile is a little strained. Ryan wraps his arm around the dark head and presses a quick kiss to tousled hair, trying to make things a little better. At the opposite wall, the fire they managed to start earlier is dying down, the wood burnt away and reduced to glowing embers. Sparks are still going off from time to time, and Ryan watches how they dance back and forth in little waves of gold and red. Brendon leans his head against Ryan’s shoulder, pushing them both to the side until they’re snuggled comfortably half on top of each other in the semi-darkness.

“Do you think there’ll be snow in Chicago?” Brendon asks. “Jon said there was some last week, but he didn’t know if it would stay.”

Ryan moves his hand to Brendon’s chin, tilting it up slightly, just enough for a lazy kiss. “We’ll see,” he answers, looking out of the window into the dark Las Vegas night. “I hope so.”

“If there isn’t any, we’ll grab Jon and Spencer and go to Canada,” Brendon muses. “Or Alaska or Iceland or something. Somewhere really cold.” He shifts a little, moving in for another kiss, the bandage on his left wrist dragging against Ryan’s forehead as he rolls completely on top of the taller boy, pressing them deeper into the soft cushions. The kiss starts out achingly sweet but soon turns wet and needy—a well-established pattern between them. Ryan moans and presses up a little, one hand going to the small of Brendon’s back, easing its way under the fabric of the soft t-shirt and splaying possessively against warm, familiar skin. He curls his fingers, letting his nails drag lightly over the smooth back, and Brendon groans, grinding down hard. Somewhere in the house, a phone goes off, interrupting the warm silence with a tinny rendition of _Santa Claus is coming to town._

Brendon pulls away with an exasperated sigh, and Ryan laughs, rising with him, keeping their mouths together as well as he can as they stumble out of the living room in pursuit of the noise. They somehow make it through the hallway and into the music room to the right without falling, and Brendon fumbles blindly over the mixing table with his bandaged hand, most of his focus set on undoing the buttons on Ryan’s shirt.

“Seriously, Ross, you should stop wearing these things, just think about how much faster I could get you naked if you would just—yeah, hello? Spence, is that you?”

Spencer’s voice comes through the phone, asking about the flight the next day and at what time they will be meeting up to go to the airport. As far as Ryan can tell, Brendon isn’t exactly paying attention, which could have something to do with the way Ryan has both his hands working on unbuckling his belt.

“Yeah, sure, man,” he says, and Ryan can see him bite his lip to keep a moan in as long fingers slip beneath the waistband of his jeans, brushing across hot and hardening flesh while slowly easing the zipper down. The jeans come undone, Brendon’s pleading look and frantic shake of head ignored with an evil smile, and Ryan drops to his knees, leaning forward to mouth at the sensitive skin of an inner thigh.

“Eight thirty. Right,” Brendon manages, raising his uninjured hand to his mouth, biting down around the edge of his thumb to muffle the sounds that threaten to escape him as things progress. He’s holding the phone upside down, trying to keep the mouthpiece as far away from his face as possible to stop it from picking up the sounds of heavier breathing. Ryan goes deeper, enjoying the thrill, stroking Brendon’s thighs with firm, regular movements until they start to tremble and he needs to go higher and keep a steady grip on the hips instead. He takes a long, deep breath through his nose and adjusts the angle, relaxing his throat as much as he can, letting Brendon fuck him. Above his head, his lover is still talking to Spencer, or trying to—from what Ryan gathers through the haze of arousal and concentration, he’s not making much sense anymore. He keeps his eyes closed and focuses on the subtle tells of Brendon’s body, pushing him firmly and deliberately closer and closer to the edge with his hands and mouth until Brendon stiffens, the phone clattering to the floor, battery breaking off, hands fumbling frantically behind him for something to hold on to. A broken cry breaks from his lips, and Ryan wraps his arms around the back of Brendon’s thighs to steady him, swallowing smoothly around the hard length as hot bursts hit the back of his throat. Brendon’s hand moves to his face, caressing his cheek and sliding into his hair, holding him still through the final trembling thrusts. It’s such a quiet moment of intimacy at the centre of burning intensity, and Ryan moves his tongue gently, coaxing the last trickles of pleasure from the sensitive flesh, savouring the lingering feeling—savouring _them._

When the gasps out of Brendon’s mouth become quiet moans, he sits back and then gets to his feet, hands pulling the tight jeans back up over Brendon’s hips as he rises, doing up the zipper, refastening the belt.

“I love you.”

Brendon doesn’t open his eyes, but his lips turn into a sleepy, beautiful smile as the words are whispered against his neck. He raises both hands to Ryan’s face, kissing him deeply, pulling him so close, Ryan can nearly feel the way Brendon’s heart beats against his chest. In the distance, another phone goes off—Ryan’s this time—but even though they know Spencer will be pissed and claim that they are both complete assholes tomorrow morning for not talking to him, neither of them can bear to move just yet. So they stay there, leaning against the mixer table, touching and tasting until breaths turn into yawns and eyes flutter closed from sleepiness rather than lust.

“Come on,” Ryan suggests, voice a bit rough and scratchy as he tries to make words. “Let’s go to bed.”

Brendon nods happily against his shoulder and follows him out of the room, picking up the pieces of his phone on the way, putting it back together. Ryan listens to him talk to Spencer while he brushes his teeth, Brendon’s not-terribly-sincere apologies carrying over from the bedroom. He washes his face and hears the call come to an end, the soft notes of Brendon’s favourite Christmas record starting up in its place. He reaches for a towel and turns off the warm water, letting the melody of Schubert’s _Ave Maria_ fill his senses.

_Thou canst hear though from the wild,  
Thou canst save amid despair._

“Safe may we sleep beneath thy care…”

Brendon’s rich baritone joins the clear soprano on the recording, his arms coming around Ryan from behind, a kiss pressed against a naked shoulder between words sung softly into his skin. Ryan lets himself fall back, leaning into Brendon’s body, sleepy and content and just so damn fucking _happy_. Brendon sings the song through to the end, voice soft and sure against Ryan’s ear, an impromptu concert for just the two of them. As the last note dies out, he turns his head slightly, pressing his lips to Ryan’s cheek before moving away, reaching for his toothbrush. Ryan steps to the side, letting Brandon take his place in front of the mirror, and moves to take Brendon’s place in turn, arms wrapped securely around a thin, muscled waist, chin resting comfortably against a warm shoulder.

The music is still playing as they crawl into bed, naked skin against naked skin between cool sheets. It’s almost midnight, almost Christmas, and Ryan thinks briefly of Jon and Spencer, of Pete and all the rest of them and of Chicago and snow as he pulls Brendon closer, lacing their fingers together on top of the pillow. Through the window, he can see a myriad stars, little diamonds on a velvet sky spreading out above them.

“Marry Christmas,” Brendon murmurs, bringing their joined hands to his face for a brief brush of lips. “Sleep tight.”

Ryan smiles and closes his eyes.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've never heard Schubert's _Ave Maria_ , you really should [go check it out.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aQVz6vuNq7s) It's one of the most beautiful pieces ever. (This particular recording is in German, but the soprano is wonderful and a lot better than the ones I found in English versions, so... :-))


	4. With a Little Help From My Friends (Panic! GSF)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [](http://afterxbirth.livejournal.com/profile)[**afterxbirth**](http://afterxbirth.livejournal.com/), whose [Christmas wish](http://redorchids.livejournal.com/29485.html) was _fluffy polyamory panic boys. don't care what plot you decide on (or even if there is no plot ;) ) just as long as there's ryan/brendon/spencer/jon in love._  
>  Merry Christmas!

The best thing about it is waking up and not be alone. Waking up and not be cold. He used to have trouble sleeping, always too close to fear to be comfortable, his body never completely relaxed even in rest, some part of it always watching for signs of imminent danger and possible means of escape. He always kept his window open, even during the winter, since he wasn’t allowed to lock the door. Vegas wasn’t New York or Chicago or Minneapolis, but the desert nights in December could still be pretty damn cold. He was so used to curl up into a ball and shiver in his sleep that it didn’t even register with him anymore. Not until Jon commented on how many clothes he was wearing as he climbed into his bunk one night on the bus.

The nightmares are easier to deal with as well, waking up in a warm cocoon of tangled limbs instead of a suffocating twist of cold, damp sheets. He still wakes up screaming sometimes, but usually, someone shakes him awake before then, pulling him from the monsters’ clutches with hands and lips and the soft rush of his name being whispered into his ear. And when he does wake up shaking and terrified, too close to sleep to keep his eyes open but unable to close them or the nightmare will come rushing back (ready to pick up right where it left off), they are there to help him through it, to talk to him until the terror fades, to hold him and kiss his neck until his muscles begin to relax. It’s usually Spencer who notices first, even though Brendon is normally closest to him when they sleep. Jon calls it the sixth sense of best friends, and Ryan thinks that he’s probably right. For just like Ryan’s body learned to always stay on the alert for imminent attack during far too many years, Spencer’s learned to stay on the alert for Ryan, for signs of pain or fear, for signs that Ryan needed him. This is why they don’t need to talk most of the time, not with their mouths at least. Spencer will shift his weight to the right as they stand together in the limelight, not quite close enough to bump into Ryan, but close enough to let him feel the question of _What’s wrong?_ Ryan will answer with a shrug of his shoulders ( _Not sure, hurts._ ), and Spencer will follow up with a warm hand at the small of his back ( _I’m right here. Focus on me, okay?_ ).

If Spencer is his rock, then Brendon is water: always free, always dramatic, crashing into Ryan’s senses, relentless like the tide. He will be serene like the surface of a pond in a flowering garden, and then the undercurrents will start to pull, dragging Ryan out into a Caribbean riptide, submerging him in glittering swirls of bright turquoise and dancing fish. Ryan is so in love with him, he can barely breathe at times. But then, he guesses that’s normal when you choose to live your life under water.

Jon kind of floats around the three of them, a smiling summer breeze, soothing and wonderful. Out of the four of them, he’s the one who seems most comfortable in his own skin, content to live and love, to drift around the leaves of green umbrella trees in the middle of summer. And he makes Ryan soar, high as a kite, free and light-hearted through a whirlwind of creativity, his heart a hot-air balloon in the summer sun.

If he’s to complete the analogy, Ryan often fears that he burns too bright, too hot and too consuming, like he’s a match just waiting to go out. Somehow, he doesn’t though. Somehow, Spencer’s constant attention doesn’t suffocate him, but pushes new things out of the ground for him to explore. Somehow, Brendon’s never-ending enthusiasm doesn’t douse his flame, but turns him into an underwater light, swaying happily in the currents. And somehow, Jon always knows exactly how much space to give, caressingly providing just enough air to make the flame burn high and bright, never blowing out the lantern.

Really, it’s no wonder they wrote a whole album about nature when you think about it.

Explaining it in interviews. That’s the tricky part.

THE END


	5. A Perfect Proposal (Brendon/Ryan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brendon and Ryan get engaged. It kind of happens by accident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of written as a [PCCF](http://behindthec.livejournal.com/82230.html) sequel, though it stands alone just fine.

“So, Spencer was telling me that I should start taking better care of my money,” Brendon says around noon one day. They're still sprawled in bed, half-empty cups of coffee cooling on the bedside table next to plates that used to be piled with toast. “Set up a pension fund and shit like that.”

Ryan makes an encouraging sound against Brendon's shoulder, still too boneless and sleepy from their post-breakfast activities to bother with actual words.

“Seriously, though,” Brendon goes on. “He sent me about a gazillion links for stuff I need to do. I don't know, have you sorted out all that? Should we—” He trails off. Ryan waits.

“Should we what?” he asks after Brendon's been silent for several minutes. Brendon rolls to his side, scooting down a little so that they're face to face.

“I thought, maybe,” Brendon says, and then bites his lip, as though he isn't really sure how to get the rest of the sentence out.

“Yeah?”

“Should we look into some of these things together? Like, joint accounts? That kind of thing?”

Ryan smiles. A couple of years ago, the thought of anything joint that wasn't an illegal substance would have triggered a whole set of defence mechanisms. Now he just smiles and cuddles a bit closer.

“Mhm.”

“Mhm?” Brendon asks, mildly incredulous. “Dude, I'm asking you to go all shared economy and 30 plus years pension funds, and your reaction is 'mhm'?”

“Mhm,” Ryan confirms, pressing a kiss to Brendon's neck. “Sounds good.”

He keeps pressing kisses into Brendon's neck and shoulder until he realises that Brendon has gone really still and quiet. Frowning a little, he leans back, opens his eyes. “Dude, you okay?”

Brendon is looking at him, a lot paler than he usually is. He looks—kind of freaked out, actually.

“We—” Brendon starts and then breaks off to blink about a dozen times and swallow heavily. “Dude, did we just decide to get married?”

***

They order rings that weekend, telling each other (themselves) that they're just going out to look. See what's available. No actual agenda. No big deal. They pass the bigger jewellery stores, looking at window displays and talking about lunch. The next album. Whether Bogart needs a new chewing toy.

They're on their way to a small Greek place when they spot it: just another door with a sign in front of it, window almost entirely covered by blossoming vines.

It's a smithy. Or whatever a place in LA that specialises in custom-made jewellery in their own little shop ought to be called.

Brendon looks at him, a big, goofy smile spreading across his face. Ryan is pretty sure his own face is mirroring the expression.

They go inside, actually having to bend their heads a little to get in the door. It's like going back in time, or being on a really cool set for a period piece. There's a long counter in the middle of the room, separating the customer area from the actual smithy, and holy shit, the _tools_. Old-fashioned and worn-looking, image perfected by a man in a grey beard and glasses in a corner, working away with a small hammer. Ryan can't stop staring.

The goldsmith finishes with the piece he's working on and comes up to the counter, wiping his hands on the apron he's wearing over his clothes. “Can I help you?”

Ryan looks at the walls, the old man, the counter with the glass top that's doubling for a display area. There isn't much on display, but every piece beneath the glass is interesting and original—a far cry from the mass-produced pieces they've seen in the bigger shops.

“We're looking for engagement rings?”

The man looks from Ryan to Brendon and back again. And then he smiles, open and friendly. “Well, then you're in just the perfect place, aren't you, now?”

Ryan looks at Brendon, who's smiling so big, he's starting to look like he swallowed the fucking _sun_ or something.

Ryan nods.

***

They decide on simple gold bands. White gold, because Ryan likes how it looks against Brendon's skin, with a hammered finish that they both just kind of love as soon as they see it. No diamonds. They're not girls, and Ryan doesn't especially want to walk around with a ring that's worth more than his car on his finger every day of the week.

Everything goes smoothly until they've already paid a deposit and the goldsmith is jotting down the final details of their order in a small book.

“What date should I put in?”

Ryan looks at Brendon. Brendon looks just as puzzled as Ryan feels.

“For the inscription,” the goldsmith says. “Usually, people want the date of the engagement in their rings, but that's entirely up to you, of course.”

“Um...”

Brendon suddenly looks weirdly uncomfortable, and Ryan wonders why. Sure, they don't really have a _date_ date, but it's not like they're going to be celebrating their _engagement_ anniversary once they're married, and—holy shit, they're getting _married_. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Can we get back to you on that?” Brendon says, not really meeting Ryan's eye. “I mean, we don't really have a—I haven't actually—and I want to—Would that be okay?”

“Sure,” the goldsmith says, giving them another easy smile. “Call me anytime before you pick them up. I do inscriptions last anyway, but a 24 hours notice is always appreciated.” He hands a business card to Brendon, who blushes bright red and mumbles a 'thank you' as he puts it in his pocket.

Ryan ducks his head and bites his lip.

Trust Brendon to want to do a fairytale proposal.

***

“What's up?” Ryan says into the phone a couple of weeks later, holding it up with his shoulder as he adds another banana to the smoothie he's making.

“I was wondering,” Brendon says, voice slightly muffled by static, probably calling from his car. “Like, I had this whole plan, going up on mountains and eating strawberries in the sunset and stuff, and it was really romantic, but the more I thought about it, the more I started to freak myself out, and then all these things started to go through my head, like, what if you fell off a cliff, or I totally screwed everything up and we got in a car accident on our way there, or Southern California magically decided to have freak storms, with _hail_ —or tornados, can you imagine tornadoes?—all of a sudden, and I just—Can we do it tonight?”

Ryan takes a moment to backtrack and comes up empty. “Um, what?”

“The date,” Brendon says, and Ryan can hear his voice waver a little. “In the, um, rings, you know? What if—would you be okay with—what if that was tonight?”

Ryan drops the peach he's peeling into the sink.

“Ryan?”

“Um, yeah,” Ryan manages, picking the peach back up and cleaning it off in cold water. “Yeah, sure. I mean, we could make dinner or something. Eat on the terrace.” He hopes the words make sense to Brendon. He can't really hear them over the sudden rush of blood in his ears.

“Great,” Brendon says, and he sounds nervous as fuck, but relieved at the same time, and Ryan pictures him there, in his car on the freeway, driving too fast like he always does.

Dinner. Right.

***

They burn dinner. Not because they're neglecting it, the way they often do because the counter tops in their kitchen just happen to be the perfect height for Brendon to lift Ryan up and slowly fuck his mind out, but because they're trying too hard, set on making an amazing three-course meal that requires four burners and two separate dishes in the oven simultaneously, when their usual level of skill stops at veggie lasagna.

It's kind of an epic fail.

In the end, they just look at the World War Three state of the kitchen and then at each other until the corners of Ryan's mouth start to twitch and Brendon convulses in laughter before reaching for the phone and calling their favourite Chinese place for take-out.

They eat on the terrace. They missed the sunset, too busy with trying to stop the kitchen from catching on fire and the friggin' white chocolate ice-cream _swans_ Brendon tried to make from melting into little puddles on the plates.

Ryan reaches over to catch another piece of ginger/curry pineapple with his chop sticks, but stops kind of half-way, because Brendon is looking at him with the smile he usually only wears in bed—all dreamy and relaxed—before it suddenly tenses, interrupted by a sudden intake of breath.

He slides out of his chair. Down to one knee.

“Ryan, will you marry me?”

It shouldn't feel momentous, but it does. Brendon looks up at him, waiting, and no matter how many times Ryan has thought about this (and he _has_ , even though he would rather die a very painful death than own up to it), he's completely unprepared for how it feels when it actually happens.

“Fuck, Ryan, say something.”

Ryan gives himself a mental shake and tires to focus, looking down at Brendon, who is growing steadily paler before him.

Ryan kisses him.

“Yes,” he breathes against Brendon's lips, wrapping both his hands tightly in Brendon's hair and pulling him even closer. “Fuck, yes.”

***

A picture is worth a thousand words, so they take one with Brendon's Sidekick—just two hands overlapping, matching jewellery shouting the message they want to convey loud and clear to whoever wants to listen.

They send it to Spencer and Jon first—the real family—then to Shane and Regan, Zack, Eric, Pete, Brendon's parents and siblings and Ryan's mom, message after message going out into cyberspace.

Finally, they post one picture to twitpic, adding the link to an entry on their real life blog that no one but their friends knows about.

 _Today,_ it says simply. Brendon presses 'send' and turns off his phone. He puts it down on the bedside table and leans back, watching Ryan hungrily as he strips out of his jeans.

Ryan smiles and climbs into bed.

Brendon meets him, surging up for a kiss before Ryan's even found his way in between the sheets. Brendon kisses him like he never wants to do anything else in his life, pulling Ryan with him into thoughts of forever, like it's the easiest thing in the world.

Ryan kisses back, letting Brendon roll him over on his back, and fists his right hand in dark hair as Brendon breaks away, trailing his lips and tongue down Ryan's chest like a slow promise.

Ryan spreads his legs. This part, at least, they know how to get just right.


	6. A Little More Touch Me (Brendon/Ryan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "To be honest, I kind of just want him to pound me."  
> Brendon and Ryan in the pre-split, drifting apart era.
> 
> (Previously called _A Little Less Sixteen Candles_. Changed title because of the total lack of vampires.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what happens when [](http://behindthec.livejournal.com/profile)[**behindthec**](http://behindthec.livejournal.com/) and I are both sick and cranky and hitting each other up for porn.

  
The party was in full swing when Ryan got out of his car and walked up the gravel path to Brendon’s house. Well, technically Brendon’s. Unofficially, it was also Spencer’s. And Shane’s. Maybe Regan’s. Ryan hadn’t really kept track of who was moving in or out since—well, since he’d lived there.

The invitation had been simple. A text message from Twitter, declaring a “party at casa urie @ 9 if u can find it.” Ryan had responded by sending out an invitation of his own, not that he needed to for his house to fill itself with friends, their friends and maybe a visiting cousin or five more or less every weekend.

The kitchen was loud and full of people. Ryan sidestepped it and crossed to the living room, getting a beer on his way to the back yard.

He was almost at the set of glass doors when something caught his attention. A big group of people were gathered on the sundeck, talking and laughing. Brendon was there, lounging in a bean bag (of all things). Someone mentioned the band, and Ryan stopped, keeping still and quiet to hear the end of what they were saying.

“—just hoping Ross will call one day and want to be BFFs again?”

Ryan didn’t recognise the voice, but the tone was easy enough to place. He took a step back, wondering idly why it stung to realise he didn’t belong somewhere when he’d already known it walking through the front door.

“To be honest, I kind of just want him to pound me,” Brendon replied, and the group of people around him burst out laughing. Ryan froze.

“Yeah,” Brendon continued, laughing with the rest of them, “talking’s fucking overrated.”

Ryan started to move his feet. The words hurt, if only because he’d heard Brendon say the same kind of things about countless hook-ups and was used to being one of the people laughing _with_ him at whoever was being casually dismissed.

He really shouldn’t have come here.

“Ryan! What’s up, man?”

Fuck.

His first instinct was to just flee the scene, pretend not to recognise the guy throwing his arm around his shoulders and manhandling him towards the deck. It was just one of the tech guys from their last tour after all. And he seemed pretty wasted. Ryan could totally escape and deny everything later if someone asked.

Except the tech was already through the glass door, pulling Ryan with him like a rag doll.

“Look, everyone! It’s Ryan!”

Shit.

“Speak of the devil,” someone said, and everybody laughed again. Ryan very pointedly did not blush.

Mr Drunk Tech let go of the death grip on Ryan’s neck and more or less fell into a pile of giggling girls. 95% of Ryan’s brain was still screaming at him to flee, but that really wasn’t an option anymore.

So yeah. _Fuck._

He felt Brendon’s eyes on his face long before he actually turned around to meet them. “Nice party.”

Brendon raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t think you’d come,” he said neutrally. Ryan shrugged.

“Was just in the neighbourhood,” he tried, doing his best to ignore the ironic smile spreading on Brendon’s face. “No big deal.”

“Yeah,” Brendon said, still not moving his eyes away. “Nothing really is these days, is it?”

Ryan looked down, trying to think of something to say back that wouldn’t make the whole thing escalate. And that would preferably get him out of Brendon’s house ASAP.

Next thing he knew, Brendon was on his feet and pulling him back into the house by the wrist.

“Later!” he called over his shoulder, and the party exploded in laughter and wolf-whistling. Ryan felt his cheeks burn.

***

Brendon led him quickly through the house, up the stairs, through a hallway. He didn’t offer any explanations and Ryan didn’t ask, still too much in shock to do anything but follow. Brendon’s hand was warm around his wrist—the first actual skin-on-skin contact they’d had in months. Ryan closed his eyes and wondered when everything had got so fucked up around him.

Brendon pulled them into his bedroom and closed the door.

“So I’m guessing you heard that.”

It wasn’t a question, not really, so Ryan didn’t answer with more than a look. He didn’t think they actually _needed_ to discuss it. Ryan got the joke. It wasn’t like he hadn’t noticed that the band was falling apart. Making fun of the clichés, the gossip, the way other people saw them was an easy way to distance yourself. Ryan had done it often enough; throwing stones seemed kind of pointless.

Brendon kept _looking_ at him though.

“So?” Ryan said finally. He leaned back against the door, waiting for Brendon to make whatever point he thought he had to make and leave him alone. If he left soon, there might even be some interesting people awake at the party he’d abandoned at his own house when he got back.

“Lock the door.”

Ryan frowned. Okay, so that was weird. And really fucking awkward. Not to mention that the first image his brain offered up in interpretation was one that definitely had no business being in Ryan’s head. “Why?”

Brendon tightened his grip. “Just do it.”

Ryan made a show of rolling his eyes. Brendon either didn’t get it, or he just didn’t care. God, how much longer was this going to take? Ryan turned the lock.

“Okay, fine,” he said. “There you go. I’m all yours. Now, what the fuck to you want?”

Brendon tilted his head to the side. “Why are you here?”

Ryan really didn’t have a good answer to that. It had been a spur of the moment thing. He’d gone out to get some more liquor for his own party and had ended up here. No plan, no real reason. It had just kind of happened. He shrugged.

“You don’t know?” Brendon said in a low voice, taking a measured step closer. “Well, I think I do.”

The hand curling around his neck and pulling him down came out of nowhere, lips crashing together before Ryan’s mind had time to register it was happening. His back slammed against the door. Brendon kissed him harder, and Ryan was sure to find a million excuses for the way his body just melted into it in a second or two when his brain came back online, but right then, it simply _was_.

And then it was _different._

Six years. God. _Six years_ since the last time they’d done this.

Things had changed.

Brendon-six-years-ago had tasted like smoothies and candy, had thrown himself into each kiss like it was the greatest thing ever invented, all sloppy and uncoordinated and wanting to feel everything at once. Brendon-now tasted of beer and barbeque sauce and kissed the way he played his guitar on stage: with confidence and skill—like he expected Ryan to fucking swoon.

It really, really pissed Ryan off how fast his head was spinning.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he managed, hands finally getting the message that they should be pushing away, not pulling closer. Brendon took a step back. His lips looked bruised and swollen—much like Ryan’s felt— _alive_ in a way that they hadn’t been in years. Ryan leaned back in before he could stop himself, felt Brendon’s smug smile brush against his mouth before tongues and teeth pushed it away and everything began to spiral.

“Remember the last time?” Brendon murmured, drawing his lips along Ryan’s jaw until he reached the neck and bit down softly.

“No.”

Brendon fell to his knees, hands settling on Ryan’s belt buckle, working it open and pushing the jeans down to mid-thigh together with Ryan’s underwear. “Liar.”

Yes.

Of course he remembered. It had been a Friday, one that probably ranked in the world top ten of failed dates forever. He remembered how Brendon had crawled between his legs and wanted and _tried_ and failed and choked so horribly that he’d ended up curled into a ball on his side, coughing for several minutes. And he’d still smiled, had still looked up at Ryan like he was _worth it_ , everything Brendon was feeling just shining out of his eyes like it was okay to do that. Like Ryan would be able to keep it safe.

This time, Brendon’s eyes were closed, and Ryan couldn’t help but reading it as dismissal. Brendon parted his lips, took him deep inside in one smooth stroke and set a firm rhythm that had Ryan panting within minutes. He fisted his hands in Brendon’s hair to keep himself under control, and Brendon put both hands on his hips and tilted his head back a little, pulling him deeper, moving Ryan’s hips faster until Ryan caught on and started to thrust on his own.

Jesus fucking Christ. Brendon had really picked up a skill or two since the last time they’d done this, that much was clear. A small part of Ryan’s brain was going into overdrive, registering every detail about the way Brendon moved his tongue, worked his throat, kept the soft, swollen lips closed around Ryan’s cock like a fucking glove—wondering who had taught him, how many guys Brendon had practiced on to get this good.

A much bigger part was busy trying to keep Ryan from blacking out altogether. Brendon’s hands were still on his hips, guiding him, making Ryan fuck him harder and deeper, making the pleasure spread and build until everything around him centred on Brendon’s mouth, Brendon’s throat, Brendon’s fucking _tongue_ curling against the underside of Ryan’s cock on every other stroke.

_To be honest, I kind of just want him to pound me._

Fuckfuckfuckfuck _fuck_

He could feel his balls drawing up, the rush of blood and everything cresting, so close to the edge and leaning over it, waiting for just one more perfect thrust and slide that would have Brendon’s throat working around him, swallowing while his lips kept pulling at the base, hands on hips keeping Ryan’s knees from giving out. He could taste it now, how good it would be, just this, and Brendon, and oh holy fuck, _Brendon_ —and God, so so close—

Brendon pulled away, hands wrenching Ryan’s hands from his hair and pushing his narrow hips firmly back against the door.

“Is that the best you can do?” he said, getting to his feet. His voice was rough and somehow mocking. Ryan just stared at him, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

Brendon let go of Ryan’s hands and held out his arms. _What?_ Ryan blinked.

“What are you waiting for?” Brendon said quietly.

Ryan managed to move one of his arms, touching his hand to Brendon’s chest. The world was still spinning. “Nothing even feels like you anymore.”

Brendon let out a short, bitter laugh. “Well, I could say the same thing,” he said, aiming a meaningful look in the direction of Ryan’s groin. “Way smaller than I remembered.”

Complete shock and confusion. Then anger, rising fast and hot, overtaking arousal and mixing with it. The hand on Brendon’s chest moved to an arm and yanked hard. And then it was Brendon pinned against the door with Ryan behind him, pressing firmly against Brendon’s back. “What the _fuck_ is your problem!”

Brendon broke the hold, pushing Ryan back and making him almost fall over, pants still caught around his thighs. “What?” he challenged. “Not adoring and sweet enough? Did you think we’d kiss and I’d fall in love with you all over again?”

Ryan blushed, red and angry, hands moving down to pull up his jeans, doing up the buttons with quick, jerky movements. “Fuck you.”

“Nice to see you’re catching on.”

Brendon didn’t let him get away, two hands on Ryan’s chest sending him stumbling backwards until the back of his legs caught the edge of Brendon’s bed.

Brendon pounced.

Ryan had thought Jac was bad, with the way her nails would cut into his skin when they’d have a fight and then tear each other’s clothes off (or just skip the intro and fight during sex, which hadn’t been unusual either). Brendon was much stronger, fighting back when Ryan rolled them over, mouth latching on to Ryan’s neck and hands pulling Ryan’s shirt over his head. His knee came up between Ryan’s legs when they flipped over again, too fast and hard and so close to an actual kick in the balls that Ryan let out a yelp and shoved hard, sending Brendon over the edge of the bed. They both crashed to the floor.

Brendon shoved his jeans back down. Ryan kicked them off, something inside of him soaring when he managed to kick Brendon repeatedly in the shins in the process. Seconds later, Brendon’s jeans went the same way, then his boxers, and—

And then there was skin, and heat, and hands grabbing and pulling until they were both gasping into each other’s mouths, lips finding their way back to lips and crashing together, bodies fighting by latching on closer now, pressing air out of lungs and making everything burn.

“We’re not fucking on the floor,” Brendon panted, pushing Ryan up to his knees and getting unsteadily to his feet for just long enough to pull them both back on the unmade bed.

Ryan groaned as Brendon rolled over him, and then again when something cold and plastic connected painfully with his collarbone.

Lube.

Brendon climbed on top of him, straddling Ryan’s hips and holding himself up on straight arms. “Let’s hope you’ve gotten better at this since last time.”

Ryan fucking hated him.

Looking steadily into Brendon’s eyes, he grabbed the bottle from where it had fallen off his chest, flipped open the cap and slicked up three fingers at once. Brendon kept smiling.

“You are such a fucking asshole,” he whispered, before leaning down and kissing Ryan hard, muffling the cry that broke from his throat when Ryan pushed two fingers inside and started working him open. “Guess that didn’t change.”

Ryan pushed a third finger in, non too gently, crying out himself when Brendon retaliated by biting into his lower lip. “You were too fucking much to handle, okay?” he threw out, twisting his fingers inside Brendon and pressing down, finding the right spot. _Fucking right he got better at it. Christ._ “I was fucking _seventeen_ and you wanted to _marry_ me!” he managed, moving his fingers rough and fast as Brendon started to shake above him. “How the _fuck_ was I supposed to handle it?”

“You should have fucking _trusted_ me!” Brendon shot back, accusation melting into a broken moan on the last word. “I fucking _loved_ you, and you just ran off and threw yourself on the first girl you saw. And then you—God, _fuck_ —and then you _yelled_ at me the next day for fucking up your lyrics. Jesus Christ!”

Ryan pulled out his fingers, and Brendon collapsed on top of him, fighting for breath and grinding his hips down roughly. Ryan kissed him again.

“I’m sorry, okay?” he said when they broke apart for air. “Is that what you want to hear? I’m fucking sorry!”

Brendon pushed himself back up on straight arms, staring down at Ryan and then shaking his head.

“What? And you think that will _fix_ things?” he said, speaking slowly now, as though trying to keep his voice under control. “Ryan, you fucking _played_ me. Played everyone—Spence and Pete and Zack and all your Barbie-clone girlfriends—every single fucking person who just wanted to help you.”

“Jon called Spencer a week ago,” he continued, and the anger in his voice seemed to grow as he talked. “At three fucking AM, because you were off in happy land with your pretentious art friends and he had no one to talk to.”

Ryan just looked at him. It hurt; every fucking word out of Brendon’s mouth stung like crazy. Even more so because they were so undeniably true. Ryan swallowed.

Brendon leaned down and brushed a kiss across his lips. Somewhere to his right, a drawer slid shut. Next thing he knew, Brendon was pressing a condom into his left hand, leaning in for another kiss, surprisingly gentle.

“Put it on,” Brendon said evenly, pulling away and looking into Ryan’s eyes, mocking smile back on his face. “God knows where you’ve been.”

It might as well have been a punch.

Ryan felt something inside of him tear, making him gasp into Brendon’s mouth as Brendon wrapped a hand around the back of his head and pulled them both into a sitting position. Brendon kept kissing him—angry, consuming kisses meant to muffle whatever comeback Ryan planned to make. Between the pain in his chest and Brendon’s hands rolling the latex down over his dick, though, there wasn’t much he could, or even wanted to say.

_How the fuck did they end up like this?_

Brendon sank down slowly—far too slowly—making Ryan feel every inch as Brendon took him inside. Brendon kept kissing him, both hands in Ryan’s hair, pressed close like the most ironic rendering of their lyrics ever possible, making Ryan ache with a sweetness he knew wasn’t really there.

It lasted for about three minutes, until Brendon’s hips made pain become heat again, and heat morphed back into anger. Ryan felt his hands shake as he grabbed Brendon’s legs and pushed, tipping them over with Brendon on his back, perfect to just drive into, _pound into_ , like Brendon had said he wanted and Ryan would fucking give him, serious or not.

“Jesus. _Fuck._ ”

Brendon wrapped his legs around Ryan’s waist, pushing back, eyes pressed tightly together and face opening up in pleasure, so much like before—before they went and fucked everything up—and Ryan felt himself get lost in it, anger drawing back again as he watched Brendon’s mouth open. He sped up, thrusting into Brendon harder to turn the gasps into moans and then… words.

“God, Ryan, _please._ ”

Ryan tilted his hips, finally found an angle that made Brendon cry out and grab onto his forearms, and kept moving. He fucked Brendon faster, harder, jerking his hips almost mechanically back and forth, grief welling up within him and pushing the anger aside—sharp pain flaring without dull red to soften the blows. His thighs were starting to burn. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Not when even _this_ was falling apart—the one fucking thing he’d actually been stupid enough to believe would last forever.

“Ryan, hey…”

Brendon’s hand was on his chest slowing him down until they came to a stop. Ryan opened his eyes and saw only blurry colours. He blinked; his body was shaking worse than ever—giving up or giving in—shoulders curling and breaths becoming shallower and more painful with every gulp of air. He felt a hand in his hair again, then two, coaxing him down—not forcing—until Brendon’s chest was pressed against his own and there were kisses again. Different kisses.

Real kisses.

Brendon lips were softer now, if less steady, tongue stroking pleasure into Ryan’s mouth and asking for Ryan to give it back. The legs around his waist tightened, Brendon’s hips rocking against his, sparking heat and dragging Brendon’s cock against the skin of Ryan’s stomach. Ryan moaned.

They started to move again, closer and closer with every thrust until they were clinging desperately to each other, swallowing down every sound that threatened to escape when the pressure started to build again, higher and higher, until it finally broke.

Ryan buried his face in Brendon’s neck as he came, arms wrapped tight, tight around his back. He felt Brendon shudder underneath him, more wetness adding to the hot slide of skin and sweat as they rode out the tremors together, trying to breathe. And refusing to let go.

***

They stayed like that. At some point, Brendon managed to throw the blanket over them to keep warm. At some other point, panted breaths gave way to kisses, which kept on lingering long after the music blasting from the downstairs living room had quieted down and there was no more banging on the bedroom door by drunk friends who thought it was funny for some reason.

They fell asleep, still inside and all around each other. When Ryan woke up, everything was quiet. They were curled together on their sides, legs and arms all tangled up, uncomfortably sticky. He turned his head and looked at the clock on the wall. 4:35 AM.

Fuck.

He carefully pulled one leg away, then the other, then an arm, rolling his body to the edge of the bed with small, even movements to keep the mattress from dipping too much. The floor was cold against his feet. He wondered where his clothes were.

“Don’t even fucking think about it.”

Brendon’s voice was thick with sleep, but the hand that closed around Ryan’s wrist was surprisingly strong.

“I should leave.”

“No,” Brendon said simply. “You’ve left too many times. Stay.”

“I don’t know if I can. I mean, this was good, but—”

“This wasn’t _good,_ ” Brendon interrupted, clearly annoyed. “That was angry and bitter and fucking vengeful. Don’t be stupid.”

Ryan turned his head and stared at the wall. “Then why should I stay? It’s not like I _want_ to fuck everything up. It just keeps happening.”

“Work harder,” Brendon said thickly, pulling him back down and capturing his legs in another tangle of limbs. “We’ll help. Spencer’s good at that kind of shit. And he misses you like crazy.”

Ryan swallowed hard. “Yeah, I miss him too. Everyone.”

“Good,” Brendon whispered, cuddling closer and wrapping Ryan in a full-on body hug, already more than half-asleep again. “Stay. Sleep. We’ll talk after Spencer kills both of us and has Shane help him dump the bodies.”

Ryan felt a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “God, he’ll be fucking pissed.”

“Well yeah,” Brendon said, yawning. “Not like we can fuck things up much more though. At least we’ll get sex out of it.”

“Bad sex.”

“Huh?”

“You said it.”

Brendon uncurled the arm he had wrapped around Ryan’s waist and slapped him tiredly over the head. “Then you’d better shape up.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Well, I need a man and all.”

“And, what? Your heart is set on me? Could you _be_ any more cheesy?”

Brendon smiled goofily and buried his face in the crook of Ryan’s neck. “Maybe. Guess we’ll see.”

“God, you’re just—”

“Sleep, Ry,” Brendon said, cutting Ryan off and pressing a kiss against his shoulder. “Stay. Talk when it’s not ass-o-clock in the morning.”

“But—”

“Okay, that’s it. Shut the fuck up,” Brendon ordered, grabbing the back of Ryan’s hair and pulling him down for a long, wet kiss. Ryan kissed back, revelling in the intimacy of it all and doing his best to shut down his brain and the thousand and one reasons it was currently giving him as to why he should pull away, tell Brendon to fuck off and get the hell out of his house.

They were so fucked up. Maybe even more now than they had been a few hours earlier.

And maybe they weren’t.

Brendon’s breath evened out beside him, huffs of warm air brushing against Ryan’s neck.

Ryan closed his eyes.


	7. Three Little Birds (Brendon/Ryan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brendon visits him in rehab. He's the only one who does.  
> (Future!fic, post-PATD break up, mentions of Ryan/drugs OTP)

  
Brendon visits him in rehab. He's the only one who does.

He comes in the mornings. Early. Before most of the centre is awake, because he knows mornings are the worst part of Ryan's day, just hours stretching out endlessly and nothing worthwhile to do.

Nothing that will change the things Ryan's already done.

Jon is back in Chicago. Back with Tom and his old friends and the simplicity of playing music in small clubs where nobody really knows your name. Brendon says that he's doing well. That Jon looks happier. Ryan imagines that he's glad to hear it. The numbness inside him makes it kind of hard to tell.

Spencer hasn't as much as talked to him since the overdose. Ryan can't really blame him, but it doesn't make the distance hurt any less. Brendon tells him stories about Spencer in the mornings, how he's learnt to flip pancakes and how he likes the new juice Brendon bought the other week. Spencer surfing and learning how to play guitar; tells him about Molly, the cute roadie tech, who asked Spencer out in the middle of sound check in Miami. They've been dating for three months. Ryan doesn't even know her last name.

Ryan is sitting outside under a tree when Brendon shows up, bright smile on his face and a box of doughnuts in his hand as usual. Ryan leans into him when Brendon sits down, rests his head against Brendon's shoulder, breathing in.

How the hell did he manage to push all of this away?

Six weeks of daily therapy, and Ryan still doesn't have a clue.

“Here,” Brendon says, taking the lid of the box in his lap. “You want a strawberry one?”

Ryan nods but doesn't make any movement to actually pick it up. Brendon's arm goes around his shoulders, pulling Ryan a little closer and pressing a kiss into his hair.

“Bad day?”

Ryan nods again. Brendon takes up the strawberry doughnut, takes a bite, offers it to Ryan.

The glazed sugar melts on Ryan's tongue. It's nice. He takes another bite, then one more until the only thing under his lips are Brendon's sugary fingers.

“Chocolate?”

Ryan takes the doughnut for himself this time, eats it slowly. Brendon is digging into an apple/cinnamon one, eyes closed in pleasure as he hums around each bite.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

The question has been inside his head ever since the first day Brendon showed up. And brought him cookies. And hugged him. And didn't yell. But Ryan never meant to actually ask.

Brendon smiles. It's a very small smile. “Why wouldn't I be? You're my best friend, Ross. Forever and ever, remember?”

Ryan remembers. Brendon's apartment, two weeks before Maryland. God, they were so young then.

Ryan can't help but feel like that version of himself knew a hell of a lot more about the world and what place he wanted to have in it than Ryan does now.

“Do you think Spence will ever forgive me?” he whispers. Apparently it's a no-filter day in his head today.

Brendon shrugs. “He will if you let him,” he says, handing Ryan a third doughnut, a glazed one with sprinkles. “Once you're a little less raw and scared to death. Both of you, I mean.”

Ryan nods again. The sprinkles are getting stuck to his teeth. Brendon hands him a bottle of water.

They finish off the box of doughnuts and stay on the grass for another couple of hours, talking quietly about nothing at all. Brendon starts humming a song somewhere in the middle of a conversation, and Ryan finds himself joining in on a harmony before he can really think about it.

By the time Brendon leaves, there are words in Ryan's head, still out of reach but closer than anything has been in a long, long time. He goes into his room, sits on his bed and pulls out the journal hidden under the mattress. He bites the end of a pen, thinks about Brendon's smile and writes.

It feels like full circle.


	8. Sugarcane in the Easy Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For fannyT's prompt: _Something general and wintry with all four Panic boys being really happy and comfy with each other. And snuggly. Think pre-split Northern Downpour boys, if possible in a snowy setting. :)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's by me and salire. Mainly salire, who also edited it. Big hugs to her. ♥ Merry (belated) Christmas, sweetie! *smooch*

Brendon presses his forehead to the windowpane. It’s snowing like crazy outside, and he wishes he could be out there playing in it rather than stuck inside. But he’s just gotten over a serious case of strep that had left him voiceless for several days, and Spencer has already threatened him once about going out in this type of weather and getting sick again. So, he’s stuck inside, being bored because absolutely nothing in the house could possibly be cooler than playing in the snow.  
  
Spencer and Ryan are on the couch, Spencer’s chin resting on Ryan’s shoulder. They’re both, from the looks of it, reading the book in Ryan’s hands,  _Robin Hood_ . It’s a soft, quiet scene.  
  
But in the world of Brendon Urie, this silence is entirely uncommon, unnecessary and, especially right now, unwanted. He’s about to sprawl across their laps and ask if the book is any good and then suggest they watch a movie instead regardless of what they say about it, when Spencer’s eyes focus on Brendon. He pats the spot on the couch next to him. “Come on, Brendon.”  
  
Brendon doesn’t even really take the time to weigh his options, to destroy the quiet or to comply. He takes his seat on the couch, tucking himself under Spencer’s arm and sprawling his legs across their laps. Ryan begins to read the book aloud. Brendon thought he outgrew being read to about fifteen years ago. Apparently not.  
  
Ryan’s hand moves to Brendon’s calf as he reads, stroking softly. Brendon bends his knees a little, drawing his legs back and guiding Ryan down to his feet, pushing his toes hopefully into Ryan’s palm. Ryan smiles behind the top of the book and complies, adding pressure with the tips of his fingers against the underside of Brendon’s foot. Brendon closes his eyes and cuddles closer to Spencer.  
  
“I made some cookies,” Jon says, stepping into the living room with a large pan and red ovenmits over his hands. “They’re kind of weird shapes, but there’s a ton of chocolate in them, and they only burned a little bit, so I figured they should still be good to eat?”  
  
“Jon Walker,” Brendon says, extending his arms out toward him. “You are the most amazing cookie-maker.” He wants to try one of Jon’s cookies, but he doesn’t want to move; Ryan sort of has magical hands. He looks at Jon hopefully, eyes big and wide. “Bring me one?”  
  
“Lazy,” Jon teases but awkwardly picks up a cookie with his mit still on, handing it to him.

  
The cookie itself looks a little off somehow, appearing to be more chocolate chips than batter, but Brendon takes a big bite out of it anyway. He moans happily. “These are amazing.”  
  
“If you want anymore, you have to come get them,” Jon says resolutely.  
  
Brendon puts on his best pout in vain. Jon has already turned away and walked back into the kitchen.  
  
While Brendon is busy begging, Ryan plucks the rest of his cookie right out of Brendon’s hand and pops it in his mouth. His eyes light up in surprise. “These are really good.”  
  
“Really? Up,” Spencer says, pushing Brendon’s knee. “I want one of these supposedly amazing cookies.”  
  
“But I’m comfy,” Brendon protests, relaxing all his muscles and making himself go limp and heavy, so it would harder for Spencer to shove him off. “Jon! Come on, bring the cookies back. Please?”  
  
There’s a diabolical laugh from the kitchen. It actually sounds pretty scary. Jon’s been practicing.  
  
“Up, Brendon,” Spencer repeats, shoving a little harder at Brendon’s body. He’s not putting that much effort into it, however; Brendon can tell.  
  
“Nah-uh,” Brendon says, twisting himself around and putting both arms around Spencer’s neck. “If you want cookies, you’ll either have to convince Jon to come back here or bring me with you to the kitchen.”  
  
Spencer gives him a dry look. “If you want to live, you will get your butt off me right now. It’s you or the cookies, and I haven’t had a cookie yet.”  
  
“So, really, the question is,” Ryan says, the corners of his mouth pulling for a smile, though he’s trying desperately to stay solemn, “are you feeling lucky, Brendon?

Brendon crosses his arms stubbornly, and Spencer shrugs. “Fine. Have it your way.” Spencer pulls Brendon up by his waist and bends as he stands, catching Brendon’s hips over his shoulder and wrapping his arms securely around Brendon’s thighs.  
  
“Holy shit,” Brendon gasps in surprise, clutching at the hem of Spencer’s sweater. “Put me down!”  
  
“He warned you,” Ryan says nonchalantly as he gets up and heads for the kitchen himself. “Jon, do we have any milk?”  
  
“We have Brendon’s chocolate soy milk, but I used the rest for the cookies.”  
  
“Hey!” Brendon wriggles defiantly on Spencer’s shoulder (though definitely not enough to fall off, holy crap, he didn’t realize Spencer could even  _do_  that). “That’s mine!”  
  
“Then stop me,” Ryan says, taking out the carton and whistling happily as he pours himself a glass. Slowly. Brendon struggles for a minute against Spencer’s hold and then gives up, body slumping.  
  
“You guys are mean,” he says, giving Ryan and Jon the saddest look he can manage. “Eating cookies and drinking  _my_  milk and holding me hostage.  _Mean_ .”  
  
All three of them laugh. Spencer even has the nerve to tickle the underside of Brendon’s feet while he’s at it.  
  
“At least give me a cookie,” Brendon begs, trying and failing to reach the counter. “Please?”  
  
Ryan and Jon look at each other with evil smirks, and Brendon has started giving up hope when he suddenly feels something poking him in the shoulder.  
  
“Put it in your mouth,” Spencer says, twisting his arm blindly behind him, accidentally hitting Brendon in the nose with the cookie he’s holding. Brendon opens his mouth and snaps his jaw hungrily, managing to get the cookie on his second try.  
  
“Mwahah,” he tries to say, throwing a triumphant look in Ryan and Jon’s direction. His mouth is full of chocolaty goodness and buttery crumbs, though, so it mostly comes out  _mrnph_ . Brendon still counts it as a win.  
  
Jon laughs, and Ryan rolls his eyes and says, “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”  
  
Brendon can’t decide if this is a good thing or a bad one.  
  
Spencer gives his feet another tickle. “One can only hope he does."

Brendon wiggles against the tickling, begging, “Spencer, oh my god, I’m gonna fall, stop, Spencerstopstopstop.”  
  
“That’s what she said,” Jon contributes with a lazy grin.  
  
“Unhelpful!” Brendon snorts, wringing Spencer’s sweater tighter in his hands. He can feel his face going red with all the blood rushing to it. He pauses for a moment, then, “I think I’m going to throw up.”  
  
Spencer’s reaction is immediate. He hastily plops Brendon down on the counter, his face a mixture of surprise, worry and horror.  
  
“Ha!” Brendon laughs. “Works every time.” He grabs another cookie from the pan and takes a bite. “I grew up with two older brothers. You think that hasn’t happened to me before?”  
  
“Oh, so he thinks he’s  _clever_  now,” Spencer says, setting his jaw. “Fine. I guess he won’t be needing any chocolate soy milk based hot cocoa then.”  
  
Brendon balks. “What?  _Why not?_ ”  
  
“We wouldn’t want that big brain of yours to be adversely affected by all that extra sugar,” Ryan says casually, handing off the carton to Jon, who’s gotten down packets of cocoa powder and pouring them into mugs that Spencer has retrieved from the cabinets.   
  
“What he said,” Jon agrees. “Especially since this is the kind with the little marshmallows.”  
  
“This is an injustice,” Brendon fumes. “Come on, Jon. You know you love me best when I’ve had an extra dose of marshmallows.”  
  
Jon feigns a thoughtful expression. “He does have a point.”  
  
“ _Exactly._ ”  
  
“Don’t give in to him, Jon,” Spencer says, placing a steadying hand on Jon’s shoulder. “It’s all for Brendon’s own good.”  
  
Brendon grabs a mug for himself and scoots it next to the other three. “Come on, Jon. You know you want to.”  
  
Jon looks from Brendon to Spencer and Ryan, then back again before he finally throws up his hands and opens the cabinet again. “Fine, fine.”  
  
Brendon pumps his fist, hissing a triumphant, “ _Yes_ .”  
  
Ryan waves him off. “We like him less clever anyway.”  
  
“I resent that,” Brendon says without any menace in his voice, happily rocking back on his heels as he watches Jon place all four cups in the microwave. He grabs another cookie as they wait, munching happily away as Jon places them onto a plate.  
  
When the timer goes off and everyone retrieves their respective mugs, Jon asks, “Was that  _Robin Hood_  you guys were reading? I haven’t read that since I was a kid.”  
  
“Come on, Jon.” Brendon tugs at Jon’s sleeve, pulling him toward the living room. “If you offer him cookies, I’m sure you can bribe Ryan into reading some more for all of us.”  
  
“Sure,” Ryan says as Spencer picks up the plate.  
  
They all snuggle in together on the couch, Brendon happily wedged between Ryan and Spencer with his legs over Ryan’s lap, toes tucked warmly beneath Jon’s thighs. Spencer drapes a big quilt over them all, and Ryan starts from the beginning at Jon’s request.  
  
Brendon nestles his face into Ryan’s shoulder, nibbling a cookie, and hums happily. Okay, so maybe this is a little cooler than playing in the snow. 


	9. No Place Like Home (Brendon/Ryan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Salire's prompt: _ryan/brendon moving fic._

“I think that’s the last one,” Brendon said, putting down a heavy box on top of the many others stacked all over the floor and collapsing onto the couch. “Man, I have a lot of shit.”   
  
“Living tends to do that,” Ryan replied, sitting down next to him and handing over a can of Coke. “That, and you have a creepy fascination with stuffed animals and 50s Broadway music.”   
  
“At least I don’t have fifteen billion pounds of books,” Brendon said, rearranging himself so he could put his head comfortably in Ryan’s lap. “Let’s order a pizza or something tonight. I don’t want to move for the next...  _ever_ .”   
  
“My phone’s in the kitchen,” Ryan said. “You have yours?”   
  
Brendon reached down and felt both his pockets. “Crap.”   
  
“We could just stay here and wait until someone comes by to visit?” Ryan suggested. “Spencer’s bound to check in with us soon. We probably won’t have time to starve to death.”    
  
“Or I could suddenly develop telepathic powers and be able to order pizza  _with my brain_ ,” Brendon said hopefully. “That could happen, right?”   
  
“Totally,” Ryan agreed, moving one hand up to Brendon’s hair and playing absentmindedly with it. “If you do, get me a ham and pineapple. Cheesy crust and—”   
  
“—garlic bread on the side,” Brendon finished with a smile. “Will do.”   
  
They lay in silence for a while, Brendon’s eyes closing happily as Ryan kept petting him.   
  
“We’ll be okay, you know,” Ryan said softly. “I mean, I know I haven’t acted like I believe that, but I do.”   
  
“I know,” Brendon replied, pushing himself up and sliding a hand up to Ryan’s neck, bringing their lips together. “Just. One thing.”   
  
“What?” Ryan said uncertainly, trying to chase after Brendon as Brendon pulled back from the kiss. Brendon pushed himself up to sit properly, taking both of Ryan’s hands in his and looking into his eyes with a serious expression.   
  
“I call dibs on the left side of the bed.”


	10. College AU Ficlet (Ryan/Jon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bandslash saves the world one baby seal at the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For spindellimb's Christmas wish prompt: _Jon/Ryan, college or high school AU._

“I’m going to die,” Ryan declared, slumping pitifully with his forehead against the table. “This essay is never going to get done, and I’ll fail the class and then they’ll take away my scholarship and I’ll be kicked out of the dorms and forced to go back to Vegas.”   
  
“And the exhaust from the bus you get on will contribute to global warming and cause the polar ice to melt where a small family of seals live,” Jon added, nodding sadly. “A baby seal will fall into the water and get eaten by a killer whale. Its family will never recover.”   
  
Ryan made a pitiful sound and hit his head against the work table.   
  
“Come to think of it,  _that_  will probably launch a chain reaction in the eco system,” Jon continued. “Which will snowball until the entire world is dead. Bummer.”   
  
_Thud. Thud. Pitiful moan. Thud._   
  
“Luckily,” Jon said, leaning over and stealing a book from the pile, “There’s this awesome sophmore around who took this class last year. And I hear he really likes you, so if you agreed to go for a cup of coffee with him, he’d probably love to help you out.”   
  
Ryan’s head stopped mid-thud, face turning towards Jon with a shocked expression. Jon looked back at him with an innocent smile, shrugging his shoulders.   
  
“Really?” Ryan said, shock slowly morphing into a smile of his own. “Like, an actual cup of coffee? Or just-friends coffee?”   
  
“Oh,  _definitely_  an actual coffee,” Jon said, smiling wider and getting to his feet. “And I know just the place. Come on.” He held out his hand.   
  
“If I fail the class and the world ends, you will be responsible,” Ryan said, taking Jon’s hand and letting Jon pull him to his feet. “Just saying.”   
  
“I’d never let that happen,” Jon assured him, tangling their fingers together and leading Ryan towards the library exit. “I’ll totally help you save the world, Ryan Ross. By the powers of coffee and hopefully dinner tonight.”   
  
“Well in that case,” Ryan said, smirking as he used their joined hands to pull Jon a little closer. “I should probably let you buy me a cookie as well.”


End file.
